where your heart went through like a Colt 45
by hoidn
Summary: The soulmate AU that nobody asked for. You're welcome.


**A/N:** takes place pre-series through 3x04. i thought this was going to be a quick, fluffy ficlet, but weaving it (mostly) through canon meant that it got longer and more angsty. some dialogue is borrowed/altered from various episodes.

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When his sixteenth birthday comes and goes without a name appearing anywhere on his skin, Walt's not bothered. He's just begun to realize that his friend Martha has pretty red hair and the sweetest smile. It turns out that her name doesn't appear either and it seems like a kind of sign all on its own.

.

...

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Vic's name takes a week to fully appear and it itches the whole time. She hates that it's in such an obvious place — right on the inside of her arm — where it's visible to anybody.

Soulmates are bullshit. She only has to look at her parents to know that. And like she'd want to be with a guy named Walter. Hell no.

She spends two years covering it with makeup, bandages, fake tattoos, anything she can think of. On her eighteenth birthday, she gets a real tattoo right on top of it.

 _Bona Fiscalia._ Public property.

She likes the irony. And how much it pisses off her parents.

Everybody knows that tattoos don't last long on soulname skin, but she doesn't care. It's her middle finger to a universe that thinks it can tell her what to do.

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...

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Walt's thirty-three when the mark suddenly arrives. A spot on his back gets progressively itchier over a couple of days until Martha notices him scratching.

"Did you get bitten?" she asks as he strips off his shirt.

"I don't know. It just started itching."

"Let me see."

Her touch is cool and familiar on his skin, soothing. She says nothing and the silence stretches.

"What is it?" he asks.

She pulls her fingers away as if stung. "It's a name, Walt." There's a crack in her voice that breaks his heart. "Your soulmate's name."

Every atom in him cries out against it. He doesn't want this thing. _He doesn't want it._

Walt turns and takes her hands, looks into her eyes. "I don't care," he says fiercely. "I don't care what it says. I love _you_ , Martha. _You_ are my wife. Nothing will change that."

He kisses her then and after a moment she kisses him back. They make love in the morning sunlight and he's late to work for the first time in his life.

From then on Walt takes care to keep his back covered as much as he can. If it would do any good he'd excise the skin, scar it over, burn it blank. But a soulname always grows back, in time, like a cancer that won't be cured.

Carrying this other woman's name on his body feels like the worst kind of betrayal. It's a fracture in the living bones of his marriage; it's a fissure that never quite heals.

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...

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It's not that Vic forgets about the name on her skin. Every couple of years her tattoo fades enough that it's possible to make out the letters underneath if you know how to look. So every couple of years she pays to have it touched up. Eventually even her tattoo artist is telling her she's wasting her money.

"Just let me put it somewhere else, babe," Patty says. "You know it's never gonna take on this skin."

But for Vic the satisfaction of erasing that name from sight, even temporarily, is worth it.

.

...

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"This is a strong bond," says Ada Black Kettle, sewing up the slashes on his back.

Walt's dizzy from blood loss and whisky and has no idea what's she talking about. "What?"

"Your soulmate. Her name has been left untouched by the blade."

Henry leans over to take a look. "Yes," he says. "I do not know how it is possible. The wound should cut right through it but somehow the skin has remained whole."

Walt says nothing because it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

.

...

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Sean never asks about her soulmate. Vic never asks about his.

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...

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Martha's been dead for six months when Ruby schedules an interview for a new deputy. This is how he tells time now: the days, weeks, and months since his wife's been gone. He can't stand to think about how soon he'll be counting in years.

"I don't need a new deputy," he tells Ruby on one of the days he makes it in to the office. He's feigning industry by pretending to look for something in his desk drawer.

"Walter," she sighs, a wealth of exasperation contained in the two syllables. "We want this girl. She was a police officer in Philadelphia, in homicide for five years. She has a Bachelor's degree and several commendations."

"Sounds overqualified. What does she want with us?"

"Her husband was transferred here recently — he works for Newett Energy — and she's looking for work."

Walt grunts. The trouble with his desk drawer is that it's shallow and doesn't hold much. There's only so long he can pretend not to find the thing he's pretending to look for.

"You're interviewing her at 10 a.m. on Monday. Please don't forget to iron your shirt. And try to make a good impression."

"Who's doing the interviewing here, me or her?"

Ruby just purses her lips and slaps a post-it on the desk in front of him. "At least remember her name when you meet her."

He looks down.

 _Victoria Moretti._

The bottom falls out of the world.

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...

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Vic figures a small town police force has got to be better than sitting around all day bored out of her skull. She knows the sheriff's name is Longmire, but it's not as though it's an uncommon one. There's a whole district with that name, after all.

It's only when she goes for the interview and the woman at the desk — Ruby, she reminds herself — says, "Walt will be right out," that Vic starts to panic.

It's just a coincidence, she tells herself. There must be more than one Walter Longmire in the goddamn world.

But then he strides through the little swing gate and over to her — and Christ, he's tall — and she stands up and shakes his hand. And she just _knows_.

It's him.

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...

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Five months into Vic's employment (of course he hired her; Ruby wouldn't let him do otherwise), Walt's still got her riding with him most of the time. At first it was out of necessity. She was new in town and didn't know her way around. Taking her along on calls gave her the chance to get acquainted with Absaroka.

There's really no excuse anymore.

For so long Walt thought there wasn't room left in him for anything except anger and grief, but Vic makes him laugh. She makes him want.

And the wanting makes him ashamed.

Martha hasn't even been gone a year and these feelings— These feelings are wrong.

So he holds tightly to his pain like a talisman of protection. Every morning Martha's absence is a fresh agony when he wakes.

And every morning Vic's presence is a harbinger, like the green shoots that emerge from underneath the snow.

Walt knows he's not her soulmate; he knows she's married. Even if she wasn't, she's far too young. But her pull is a new form of gravity. And it eats at him, how much he wants to keep her close.

She's a plexus of contradiction he needs to untangle. A plaited formation of sun.

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...

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The first time she makes Walt laugh, she looks over and thinks, _okay, he's kinda hot_. There's a definite zing of attraction. But she's married and he's grieving for his soulmate and it's not a big deal. Vic understands attraction; it doesn't have to mean anything more.

She just likes being with him. Wyoming sucks and the pay sucks but she doesn't mind so much when Walt's around. She pushes boundaries and he lets her; now and then he pushes back. And after a while they become something like friends.

More or less.

The _more_ and the _less_ are the problems.

She has to stand too close, has to get in his space, like proximity is something she needs. Walt never steps away, never halts her momentum. He lets the distance between them decrease.

Then Sean wants to transfer to Australia.

And all she can think is _I can't._

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...

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Vic's doped up when she says it, angry at her husband, and she can't possibly mean it the way it sounds.

 _You're different 'cause you're a man, Walt._

God, he wants her to mean it.

The universe waited an extra sixteen-and-a-half years to give her to him just when he didn't want her. Now that he does, she's out of his reach. The irony seems pointedly cruel.

Walt calls Lizzie Ambrose out of resignation more than interest. It still feels like he's being unfaithful.

Not just to one woman, but two.

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...

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After Lizzie leaves and Walt retreats into his bedroom without a word, the silence is almost a physical presence. Vic shuts the front door and sets the book on the table next to it. Then she just stops. Like an insect in amber, she's caught, left suspended in this awful moment in time.

Reliving Walt standing there saying that there's nothing going on between them; nothing.

It's the truth, of course it's the truth, so why does she want to cry?

A muted sound — it might be the closing of a drawer — in the bedroom releases her from stasis. Seized by a sudden terror that Walt might come out and try to talk about their excruciating little interlude, Vic switches off all the lights. She stubs her toe on the coffee table in the unfamiliar dark and collapses on the couch breathing hard.

Her eyes strain to see the thin strip of light under the bedroom door. It remains steady for several minutes and then disappears. Relief flows like a shot of morphine into her veins. She takes a deep breath and feels her pulse slow.

A cold knot of disappointment persists in her gut like a stone.

Vic runs her fingers over the skin of her faded tattoo. She's never gone so long before getting a touch-up and soon it won't only be her who can make out the name underneath.

Looks like she's run out of excuses.

 _Soulmates are bullshit,_ she tells herself silently.

It does nothing to comfort her stupid, aching heart.

.

...

.

"I need to know the precise nature of your relationship with Ed."

(need, not want; he doesn't want)

 _We men are wretched things,_

Soulmate bonds can be tainted, he knows, can turn to poison in the blood. Sometimes love becomes an infection and breeds its own decay.

(the fear on her beautiful face)

 _and the gods, who have no cares themselves, have woven sorrow into the very pattern of our lives._

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...

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Vic follows him into the Reading Room because she doesn't know what else to do. Walt's scared her enough that she's pissed and she deserves some goddamn answers.

Then he strips off his shirt.

The terrible scars marring his back are a shock. But what makes the earth shake, what sucks the air from her lungs, is the untouched skin that breaks the scar near his right shoulder.

Because on that skin is her name.

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...

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Arizona shakes Walt badly.

What he wanted. What he would have done.

He's glad to escape.

On the drive back to Wyoming, Vic is quiet. Walt feels as if she's slipping away from him somehow, but neither of them have had any sleep and they're transporting a pedophile in the backseat. It's not a circumstance conducive to conversation. And, anyway, what would he say?

When she hands him the photo of their fake Russian daughter he can only stare. The pretty dark-haired teenager is clearly Vic.

And below the inside of her right elbow, where her tattoo now lies, Walt sees his name.

"You covered it up," is all he can think to say.

Her gaze is cool and shuttered when he meets it.

"So did you."

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...

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"You're happier in this picture than you ever are with me."

For once Sean doesn't sound like he's making an accusation. It's simply a statement filled with defeat.

Vic doesn't know what to say.

He gets up from the couch and walks past her. She hears the jingle of his keys.

"You know, I was always afraid it was Gorski's name under your tattoo," he says in that same quietly sad way. "But it's not, is it, Victoria?"

"No," she says. "It's not." At least she can give him that much.

"Yeah."

He doesn't slam the door as he leaves.

Somehow that makes it worse.

After a while, Vic pulls on a pair of shoes and drives back to work. Sleeping on the cot in the cell seems preferable to spending all night wondering when, or more likely _if_ , Sean is coming back. She climbs the stairs to the landing feeling brittle and hollow and tired. Tired of being chased by the past; tired of being afraid. Tired of this helpless yearning for a man who doesn't want her, and tired of being unable to appreciate the man who does.

Despite Sean's recent dickish behavior, he doesn't deserve any of this. He left his life in Philly behind for her — his friends and family, his home — without question or complaint. He's been her friend; he's stood by her; he's tried to be good to her. He's loved her. And she's loved him, too. At least, she'd thought that's what the feeling was.

Until Walt.

Walt, who'd left her tonight as if he couldn't get away fast enough. Walt, who knows that he's her soulmate and that she's his, but who's offered her nothing: no recognition, no acknowledgement beyond that brief moment when he held her photo.

So maybe the universe got it wrong and she's a mismatch. Or maybe she got it wrong and his soulmate is some other Victoria Moretti, not her at all. Whatever the reason, Vic is stuck here alone, consumed by this vast, useless love that has no place to go.

And it's not that she's ever had much faith in a benevolent universe, but at this point it's starting to feel fucking sadistic.

She lets herself into the office and is welcomed by the familiar scents of floor wax, wood polish, and a faint mustiness like the memory of books. This place is her safe haven. She takes a deep breath and lets the peace begin to settle her. Coming here always feels like coming home.

It's too early to sleep and she's too wired, but paperwork usually calms her down. Heading for her desk, Vic walks through the swing gate and jerks to a stop.

A light is on in Walt's office.

There's no way to know if he's heard her. The soft soles of her shoes make no sound on the wooden floor and she'd closed the door gently. Either he's not aware someone's here or he's avoiding them on purpose. Whichever it is, she should go. She should turn around and lock the door behind her, get in her car and drive away. She could rent a motel room for the night if she can't make herself go back to the house.

But even as she's thinking all this, Vic knows she won't do it. Because Walt is a bright, shining flame and she can't navigate away from his light. She can't stay at a safe enough distance to avoid being burned.

Right now all she has are the clothes on her back, the keys in her hand, and his name on her skin. She's pared down to just the essentials and it feels like a night for revelations.

With a strange calm suffusing her, she walks down the short hall and waits in the doorway until he sees her.

"Vic," he says in surprise. He looks tired.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" she asks, curious more than anything else.

Walt tilts his head slightly. "Tell you what?"

"It's my name on your back."

They regard each other across the room. To Vic it feels like they're waiting, as if for some appointed time.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he says at last.

Under ordinary circumstances she'd never let him get away with turning her question back on her instead of giving her an answer. But tonight she's determined to bring everything into the open, and the order in which that happens doesn't really matter.

"Because until a month or so ago I thought your soulmate was your wife."

"Right." His voice is soft, contemplative. He pushes his chair back and rises, walks around to the front of his desk and leans against it.

Physically closer, somehow he seems even farther away.

"I didn't want this, Vic."

It's like being slapped in the face. A sharp breath escapes her.

Walt steps forward, shaking his head. "Not like that. That's not what I meant." He rubs his hand across his chin, looking away from her. "When it, uh, the mark, when it appeared, Martha and I had been married fifteen years. Cady was a teenager; I was a deputy under Lucian; everything in our lives felt settled. The mark was like... an intruder in our house. You see people sometimes who've been through a break-in and they never quite get back to the way they were before it happened. They always feel just that little bit less safe. That's how we were, afterwards."

Fuck, Vic thinks. A home-wrecker at age sixteen? She really is The Terror. "I'm so sorry, Walt."

He smiles at her ruefully. "I'm not saying this right. It wasn't you, Vic. It wasn't even about a real person. It was the idea of it, I think. That someone could come between us. Martha, uh, she never got a mark, so."

"That sucks."

It's always so much harder when one half of a couple is unmarked.

Walt nods. "Yeah."

"I didn't want it either," Vic admits.

Another nod. "The tattoo."

"Yeah. Got it on my eighteenth birthday."

"Doesn't it fade?"

"I get it touched up." She waits a beat, then moves farther into the room. They're only the length of the couch apart now. "You still haven't answered my question."

He bows his head, hands on his hips. "You're married, Vic."

"That's an excuse, Walt, not a reason. You know as well as I do that divorce is practically automatic when there's evidence of an extramarital soulbond."

"I didn't know that you and Sean weren't, um, until you showed me the photo."

"Yeah, and I showed you that photo weeks ago."

Walt lifts his head. "What about Sean?"

"What about him?"

"Breaking up a marriage isn't something to do lightly, Vic. People get hurt."

"You think I don't know that?" she demands. "But guess what else hurts people, Walt. Staying in a marriage when you're unhappy or you're making somebody else unhappy! You said you didn't want to be around when Sean was here. Well, he's not here now. In fact, I'm pretty sure he just left me. But I'm here." She jabs a finger at her chest. "I am. Why won't you talk to me about this?"

Her breathing is loud in the sudden silence. Walt takes another step closer.

"What do you mean he left you?"

Vic rolls her eyes. "What do you think I mean? He picked up his keys, walked out the door, got in his car, and drove away."

"That doesn't mean he—"

"Given the conversation we had right before that, yeah, that's exactly what it means."

"What conversation?"

Walt's myopia makes her want to scream. "The one where he basically told me he knows."

"Knows what?"

 _Jesus, Walt._ "That I love you, you asshole!"

His mouth goes slack and he gives her a wild, startled look.

"So you can stop with the excuses. I don't know if it's me or what, but obviously you don't feel the same way. All I wanted to know was—"

"Wait, _obviously_?"

The insult in his voice brings Vic up short with a sharp laugh. "Oh, come on. You know I saw your back, but you never mentioned it. In Arizona you made it evident my interest was unwelcome. And then I showed you the photo just to make it blindingly clear, and you've ignored it and been avoiding me ever since. How is that _not_ obvious?"

He looks completely flustered. With a frown, he says, "Unwelcome?" as if he's never heard the word before and needs her to explain its meaning.

Now it's her turn to be confused. "It's not like you were receptive."

Walt has a strange, almost helpless expression on his face. He crosses the last space between them. "Can I see it?"

Her heart does a little flip. Does he mean...

His grasp on her elbow is gentle as he lifts her arm out to her side. The slide of her sweater is like a caress as he pushes up the sleeve. It's been four years since she's had a touch-up because she never did force herself to get it done. Below the ink, like a leviathan rising from the deep, the letters of Walt's name are more visible than they've been since the day she turned eighteen.

Vic's watching his face closely, so she sees him find them. The tip of one finger traces the shapes with the lightest pressure and a new sort of heat curls under her skin in its wake.

"All those years it was just a name," he says, soft wonder in his voice. "And then... here you were. I didn't understand..." He meets her eyes intently. "I never expected _you_ , Vic."

She's tethered to the world by only his gaze and his touch. Everything else has fallen away. Her voice is lost, her heart frantic, and she knows—she _knows_ —how impossible it is to make these feelings fit inside words.

All this time she'd thought she was alone.

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...

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Their fingers tangle effortlessly, arms slightly out to the sides to allow their bodies— to allow them— Drifting close, closer, not quite touching, not yet. Heat licking inside him, radiant warmth, as he lowers his head alongside hers. The softness of her skin makes him want to cry. Her temple, her cheek. Her mouth so near, so nearly— Her breath on his lips, his face against her hair, her face against his neck; she smells so good and it feels— god it feels, he feels— His skin and his teeth and his heart no longer aching; joy welling up in his eyes and his chest to spill over in tears and shuddering breaths.

How astonishing she is to discover; how seamlessly they fit.

"What do we do now?" she asks him and her voice trembles. Her cheeks are wet.

"You're still married, Vic," he says hoarsely.

Twisting restless motion, not quite touching, not quite—

"I thought you didn't want me," she whispers, and he groans.

"I want you. I've been wanting you."

Her lips are so—

"I'll get a divorce. Sean knows, he..." Breathless.

"We should..." _What?_ cries his skin. "...wait. We should..."

"I can't." Gasping, writhing. "God, Walt."

Blood and hearts and fate.

"I love you."

.

...

.

She presses her mouth to his.

.

...

[END]

* * *

 **notes:** the title should be 'I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your heart went through like a Colt 45' from 'I Want You to See' by Pier Giorgio Di Cicco. "we men are wretched things..." is said by achilles to priam in the iliad. walt quotes the beginning in 2x12.

if you've read this and are now thinking to yourself, "tree, what the hell?" never fear. i am right there with you, friend. right there. i do not know what the hell and i am sorry for it.


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